Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Most of my blog posts are about me, but this one is dedicated to and about a close male friend who would rather not be named. This is a story about love.

This guy falls for one of his friends, and decides to burn her some mix CDs to declare his affections. So there he is, outside her apartment with a gift bag he bought with some CDs that more or less spell out "I love you". He ties up the gift bag nicely and folds it rather flat so it'll fit in her mail box. The gift bag has a teddy bear printed on it, and it's really girly. He thinks she'll like it.

He takes a deep breath. He walks towards her apartment and find the mail boxes... it's behind a giant security gate and he can't get in. A little disappointed that he can't declare his love for this girl, he gets back in his car. He glances at the gift bag and notices the words printed on the side of the gift bag.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Interesting fact about my Anglican private girls boarding school. When we were in Grade Eleven, we had our debutante ball. Except the religious people in the school board prohibited us from wearing white because they said we were all dirty sluts. And the father's club who funded the event didn't want us wearing black because it was too sexual. So we pretty much were only allowed to wear any colour but white and black (let's not go into the whole physics/art debate of whether they are colours). And they changed it to "Presentation Ball" because they said there was no point debuting us to society since we'd been whoring ourselves out at parties for a few years.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

I was an eccentric child. Little kids spend a lot of time imaging their dream house, which usually involves a white picket fence, an xbox and a swimming pool. My childhood dream was to have mismatching cutlery and crockery when I had my own place.

So when I recently moved in my very own studio apartment, it seemed like a good time to fulfil my childhood dream. I mentioned my domestic shopping list to someone, and scoffed when they suggested I go to Ikea. "I'd rather blow up my apartment with a soap bomb," was my immediate response.

Instead, I found a delectable shop on Swan Street, Richmond that sells mostly antique and vintage crockery and cutlery sets. Most of the mismatching stuff was cheaper because normal people tend to like matching stuff. I managed to pick up a bunch of gorgeous detailed plates and bowls from the 1920s to the 1970s, all with different designs and gold detailing. I was especially proud of the set of antique silver cutlery I picked up for a mere twenty dollars. (I went to Target to check prices, and a basic cutlery set was $29.) It even had soup spoons and dessert spoons. Absolutely stoked.

Then I went home and tried to eat a steak. And discovered that the cutlery set didn't have a single knife. Fork my life.

Monday, October 12, 2009

I recently moved from a horrendous share house really close to the city to a fancy studio apartment in an expensive, trendy suburb that's about twenty minutes out. Being alone has never been so fun.

The only problem is transport. I used to live in Richmond - pretty much the biggest train station in Melbourne apart from Flinders Street. Ten glorious platforms. Trains leaving at least every two minutes. I also lived on three tram lines, and near two other train stations and several bus lines.

Now I live in a gorgeous swanky northern suburb. My neighbours are rich environmentally friendly yuppies who use calico bags made by Tibetan blind children suffering from malnutrition, and cycle every where and buy carbon offsets. I live near about ten different organic bakeries, and not one looks anywhere close to bankruptcy. I love my new neighbourhood, but there's fuck all transport.

I sort of want to buy a car but I'm afraid my neighbours will hate me and my white bread eating ways...

Monday, September 21, 2009

I used to have a normal phone. I also used to be a normal person. Then I got an iPhone.

In my pre-iPhone days, I used to look at iPhone users with great contempt. I was once at a trivia night where me and my friends spectacularly lost - because the other teams had iPhones (although using Shazam in a 'guess what song it is' competition is quite unfair).

I was vehemently against iPhones - who needs a mini computer in their pocket? Who needs constant access to Facebook and Twitter? Do I really have to have a gazillion songs on me at any one time? Who needs to be have GoogleMaps when a street directory does the job? Oh, how the tides changed when I got one.

I now check my email every thirty minutes during waking hours. I update my Twitter over lunch (2,264 tweets and counting). I look up the weather forecast while I wait for the elevator. I check when my tram is coming when the timetable on the street sign is so clearly wrong. I am now... an iPrick. I feel the need to show my friends how much cooler my iPhone is to their un-smart phone. It's horrible.

The only people who understand us are CrackBerry addicts. Similar to iPricks, but a little more restrained (you never see them boasting, "oh look at my adorable qwerty key pad").

Epilogue: I recently competed in a scavenger hunt type for charity in the Melbourne CBD. Even with our brains and an iPhone, we were way behind the other teams. But then again the other teams looked like douche bags - they wore sports gear and literally sprinted off in no particularly direction when they race started. Oh wait...

I am Post-Goth. No, I'm not trying to say that I hunt down little baby Mansonites and shove them down mail boxes. I'm saying that I used to be goth.

When I was fifteen, I was the only girl on the Gold Coast who wore black velvet from head to foot in the scorching summer heat. I wore pentagram jewellery. Stripey socks. Massively extended eyeliner with little pretentious dots around my eyes. Stockings that are made to look like spider webs. All my mates wore pink Billabong summer dresses, coloured Havianas and striped bikinis. Needless to say, I didn't fit in.

Fast forward seven years. I'm not goth anymore, but I can't get over this habit of wearing copious amounts of black. Black skinny leg jeans. Black summer dresses. Black jackets. Black boots. All of my lingerie is black and lacey. I'm not a fan of PJs, but when I do wear them it's usually an oversized Joy Division tee-shirt. I simply cannot understand this concept of coloured clothing.

Thank fuck I live in Melbourne.

PS I found a photo that I was going to post with this as proof... but it was just way too embarrassing.PPS I'm referring to the baby goth stage not the lacey intimates, you pervert.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

1. the act of shaving one's legs in anticipation of sex2. the act of hiding embarrassing soft toys (or sex toys) in one's bedroom in anticipation of sex3. the act of buying condoms when the likelihood of sex is perceived as high4. the act of waxing one's genitals in anticipation of sex5. the act of witholding ejaculation for several days in anticipation of sex (men only)

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

My teeth hurt. They really hurt. I haven't been to a dentist for four years, but hey, that happens when you live out of home and your mummy and daddy don't pay for everything.

I finally figured I could afford to spend a little of my tax return on my teeth. So I randomly looked up a dentist in the Yellow Pages and made an appointment. I estimated that I can spend about $300 on my fangs.

So there I am, a poor penniless girl (as I would be since we don't have pennies per se in Australia anyway) and I look at the address I had scribbled down, and glance up at the building. It's this massive, beautiful art deco building. There are marble floors, wood interiors everywhere. The elevator doors look like they are made of copper, and list some ludicrous establishment date (I didn't know there were white people in Melbourne in 1840). The inside of the elevator is bigger than my bedroom.

When I get to the right floor, there so much security that I have to buzz reception and stare at a security camera. The receptionists all wear black uniforms with collars so sharp you could cut cheese. The other patients in the waiting room are all grannies wearing pearls and toting expensive designer bags. I resist the urge to run out screaming because my teeth just hurt so fucking much.

Then this supermodel type woman, wearing four inch stilhettos, approaches me. Turns out she's my dentist. She leads me to the 'suite'. There's a floor to ceiling water feature. There are greek-esque sculpture thingys etched on the ceiling. She opens the blinds, and to my astonishment I can physically see Melbourne Town Hall from where I'm sitting.

So here I am, trying to figure out how I managed to pick Melbourne's most expensive dental clinic. I mentally picture how empty my wallet is going to be every time she opens my mouth.

My treatment will cost me over a $1000. That's more than I make in a month. FML.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

I get super paranoid that my luggage will get stolen so I soup up my luggage. Here are instructions on how you too can 'uglify' your baggage and ensure that your valuable tourist souvenirs don't get nicked:

Fuck all that Louis Vuitton shit. The uglier the bag to begin with, the better. I'm talking really loud prints and if there are words printed in the design, awesome! If the words are in Engrish, you're really set for luggage success.

Don't bother with locks. Have you heard about something called a bolt cutter? Or the fact that most airport security will have a gazillion skeleton keys, and can open your bag easily anyway? I just put one of those key ring things through the opening - they are so irritating to get off that they'll just give up.

Accessorise. Old ties. Scarves. Lace. Try to make your luggage look like a eighties teenager.

On an A4 sheet of paper, write your surname in bold texta, and then your contact details in biro (same as a luggage tag, you want your contact info available but not easily seen by the airport bar pervert twenty metres away).

Duct tape the paper to your bag. And then duct tape the rest of your bag. Everywhere. Coloured duct tape for the win.

It'll work because no one with any dignity would be caught dead carrying this abomination of luggage, and if they do you'll spot your bondage-hot-pink-with-glitter-and-duct-tape luggage from a mile away.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

I am a true Melburnian (note the correct spelling, peoples), I heart my trams. As recently-turned-Melburnian-singer-songwriter-comedian The Bedroom Philosopher describes Melbourne: It's like New York, but with trams.

Problems only arise when people don't follow tram-etiquette. For example, give your seat up to old people and pregnant women (but be careful to not assume that all fat women are preggers). Don't put your bag on the seat. Don't eat smelly Shanghai dumplings and drip fish oil on the upholstery. Don't fart. Don't listen to music over speakers. Don't stand in the doorway. If you see someone running to catch the tram, push the button so it stops for them.

Not too sure if 'not falling asleep on strangers' is on that list... but it should be.

I was sitting on the tram, wondering why my right shoulder was getting heavier, and heavier, and heavier. Oh that's right. That would be the middle aged woman snoozing on my shoulder. Ahem, excuse me ma'am? Erm, hello? Help, please. Someone? Anyone?

I spent half the tram ride trying to figure out how to wake the sleeping traveller. Fortunately, I didn't have to. Momentum did the job for me.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

I recently got my first (and very large and time consuming) tattoo. Always thought that I was a bit tough. I'd gotten surface piercings through my arm flesh that didn't hurt. Never wince when I get injections and blood tests. I knew that getting tattooed would hurt... but damn, did it hurt.

When I went for the first session, I was all jittery (from caffeine), wide-eyed (from having too much sleep) and happy (that I was finally getting tattoo). My senses were swimming. So as soon as the tattooist started to needle me, it was if every pore on my back was screaming. I was in agony. I was gripping onto the table so hard that the next day my arms felt like homebrand custard. I hobbled home like a wounded puppy.

By coincidence, the second session fell after a particularly heavy booze up. I literally rolled out of someone else's bed, still wearing clothes from the night before and plonked myself on the tattooing table. I pretty much fell asleep and didn't notice a thing.

Turns out that sometimes alcohol really is the answer.

Always interested to see what other methods people have to beat the needle. Perhaps I should get some quality weed and just get really stoned? Perhaps I should learn to meditate? Numbing gel? Bring a kitten along (apparently petting cute furry animals reduces blood pressure)? Let me know what works for you.

Friday, July 24, 2009

I feel that I should explain the name of my blog. No, I'm not a cannibal. I just find musicians extremely sexually attractive. You know the type: extremely lanky, super-skinny jeans, pointy brogues, leather jacket and an artfully positioned scarf around their necks. Side swept fringe, cigarette hanging from their lips and hoisting a guitar case. The type that can be found on trams to Brunswick Street. This is why I live in Melbourne. All the boys look like musicians because it's too cold to dress like a surfer.

Flatmate having an argument with his/her significant other? Have really noisy, kinky sex, and show them how you do it. Sound effects like whips and chains are marvellous. A sex partner is optional.

If your flatmate insists on bringing her conservative parents home for dinner every weekend, insist on bringing home your cross-dressing, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed mates for Sunday roast at the same time. Should make for humorous (read: awkward) conversation.

Does your flatmate has a habit of watching your DVDs and CDs, but never sticks them back in the case or scratches them? Then try this: Go to an adult store. Have a look at the discounted items section (trust me, they'll have one with all the nasty 70s porn from before people started shaving). Buy the cheapest and nastiest porn you can find, and replace a normal DVD with it. This obviously only works if they are prudes. If they're perverted you may be in a sticky spot, literally.

Find out if your flatmate is scared of ghosts...

If you have any other weird and wonderful things you do to your flatmate, please let me know. I have another four months until my lease runs out, which is ample time to try lots of new things.

NB: If you intend on getting jiggy with any friends or relatives of your flatmate, I would not recommend trying out the herpes thing. May backfire.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I am a child of the Internet. Correction: I am a whore of the Internet who was practically reared on the interwebz. I remember doing a Google Image search of the Eiffel Tower when I was eight because I was going to Paris the next day.

Fast forward 14 years, and I have accounts with Facebook, Google, Twitter, MySpace, WordPress, Blogger, YouTube and a host of speciality sites. I also have an iPhone so I could even Facebook people while I'm in the loo if I wanted to (but, erm, not that I actually do). Wonderful way to keep in touch with my pals spread out all over the world, or perhaps those just too damn lazy to catch a ten minute tram ride to my place. But horrible because people keep trying to add me as a friend.

When I say 'people' I really mean 'complete strangers', and when I say 'complete strangers' I'm actually referring to sleazy 30 year old men with nothing better to do than to hit on younger women. Some of the friend requests come with derogatory comments such as, "Bang bang baby, you're hot!" or more straight to the point, "I'd smack your ass up chicka."

The next time this happens to me, my course of action is: 1. Accept friend request from sleazy stranger. 2. Set up blind date. 3. Stand them up. 4. DELETE.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Between 9am to 5pm, Monday to Friday, I am your regular disgruntled, disenfranchised office worker. In other words, I like my coffee.

I go through about two or three espressos a day. I like my short blacks. They're simple and uncomplicated. I have no time for super large decaffeinated make-that-a-bit-weaker-still chai lattes with skim soy milk and two pink marshmallows, but in two cups so I don't burn myself 'coffee'. I just want coffee. I didn't say I wanted a birthday cake in liquid form.

So imagine my surprise when I went into a rather famous doughnut chain that prides itself on their coffees, and ordered an espresso. "Yes, but what type of espresso?" I was perplexed. I thought an espresso was an espresso was an espresso. "No, it really depends on what country you're from. It could be a latte, a cappuccino, a mocha, a flat white-" Just pretend we're in Australia and gimme my black coffee! "Will that be a long black or short black-" A short black. "Would you like sugar with that? Or milk? Or marshmallows? Whipped cream?"

PS What further infuriates me about said coffee shop is its staff's complete and utter failure at stamping loyalty cards. They don't seem to comprehend that I should get a stamp in the circle numbered '1' on my first cup. And then a stamp in the circle numbered '2' for my second cup, and so on. It seems like they enjoy randomly stamping little doughnut shapes all over my loyalty card, then telling me that I've have already redeemed all my free coffees and am now making up for the ones I have to pay for. What?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

I love books. I love literature. I love writing. I even tell people that my writer/editor mother and my printer/publisher/book enthusiast father named me Paige, as in Paige like a piece of paper.

So imagine the thrill when I went out for dinner with my very bookish parents, when I discovered a novel sitting on the sidewalk at Hardware Lane. It was A Backward Place by Ruth PrawerJhabvala, with a little note saying "Please take and read!" The inside cover revealed a book tracking number and the address www.bookcrossing.com. I was completely enchanted. The idea of leaving pieces of literature in random places for strangers to pick up and read is so completely romantic. (Of course, my mysophobic father was seriously disturbed by the fact that I was going to pick up a book from the street and bring it home with me.)

So after reading it, I decided to release it back into the wild today. I chose my target: the number 70 tram into Melbourne. Thinking that I was being so sneaky and subtle, I slid the book behind my back when no one was looking. Then I got up at Flinders Street Station and totally ignored it. Just when I was about to step off the tram, the very attractive man I was sitting next to tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, Miss. You've left your book behind."

Thursday, April 30, 2009

This one works well with ex-boyfriends (or ex-girlfriends if you so happen to be a man/lesbian) but I'd suggest waiting a month or so to reduce suspicion and avoid a War-of-the-Roses type of thing.

The Yellow Page's website is amazing. Look up any business entry and you can get the details texted to your mobile phone for free. Go to www.yellow.com.au and look up the most embarrassing business possible. Tailor it to your victim. If the man in question is a homophobic jock, send him the business details of a gay escort agency that specialises in trannies. If he is a bit of a player, try a dermatologist specialising in STD lesions. Send it at a time that other people are going to be around. Preferably on a first date with that bitch he was eyeing during the entire course of your relationship.

PS: This also works well with mailing lists. If your ex was a staunch, right wing conservative, sign a petition for one of those student-run socialist groups. Pretend to be your ex, and list their full name, address, email and phone number. Trust me, they'll be hounded for years.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Sometimes I'll be walking on the sidewalk, and I'll see someone in the corner of my eye trying to overtake me. It's unspoken sidewalk etiquette to purposely slow down for a few strides so the overtaker can get a head start on the overtakee.

Next time this happens, try to keep abreast with the person. Turn and smile and them. If they speed up, rev up your engines and keep up. If they slow down, match their speed. Once you have mastered this, you can even try syncronising your strides with theirs. This works really well on moderately empty streets (e.g. the CBD around 2pm) and it seems to agitate businessmen the most. It doesn't work very well on prostitutes or Hells Angels.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

I adore op shops. I love how my fingers get dirty after pawing through racks of random clothes (although I do feel so inclined to wash my hands, in case I catch tuberculosis). I marvel at how cheap the little old ladies price things (two dollar leather pencil skirt, wheeee). I also get really excited at the prospect of bridesmaids' dresses.

So I was at my favourite haunt the other day, when I found a dress. The most hideous of hideous dresses. The fuggliest of fuggly garments. And I had to try it on. It was composed of a crinkley black velvet top, complete with shoulder pads, puffy sleeves and a neckline so high I thought I would stop breathing. The skirt was pretty much a plastic picnic blanket (crispy, plaid patterned, possible carcinogenic?). It had this frighteningly large satin bow on the bum. I tried it on, had a bit of a chuckle to myself, gawked at the $70 price tag, then proceeded to get undressed.

Shit. I'm stuck.

The problem with op shops is that obviously the sizing is the luck of the draw. I was silly, and didn't realise how small said ugly dress was. I was in the change room for a good ten minutes, wrestling with this abomination of fabric. There was no way I would pay for a seventy dollar dress, then walk around in public wearing an eighties fashion victim's imagination. I finally got it off, with much pulling and pulling, sucking in and wiggling.

A friend later said it was probably karma for making fun of the dress in the first place. I didn't realise that good deeds applied to garments, especially to ones that are so clearly fucked up.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Men are funny. You put them in the kitchen and they freak out massively. They pretend they don't know how to use a microwave (despite the fact that you saw them heating up their damp socks the night before with one of these marvellous inventions). They feign to not know the difference between an onion and garlic. All of a sudden, they forget where all the plates/oven trays/knives/tongs/cooking utensils are, just so that you have to come and help them anyway.

So, fair enough. Men are idiots. Absolutely gorgeous and irresistible, but idiots nonetheless.

But, put a man in front of a barbeque? All of a sudden, it's as if he's become the fourth Iron Chef (Japanese accent: "Eeeeye-on chef Auzzi!"). He gets enthusiastic about marinating sauces. He refuses to use anything but the finest virgin olive oil to lightly sauté his organic duck breast. It turns out that he's been keeping a stash of rather fancy cooking utensils in the garage that are apparently too good for indoor cooking use.

Perhaps my male counterparts are secretly rather domestic but would rather us not know. Most likely because if we knew, they would be the ones doing all the cooking. But somehow, the presence of a massive fire, a huge tank of gas, copious amounts of alcohol and being outdoors releases the inner Jamie Oliver.

PS: I used to consistently burn my ex-boyfriend's revolting steaks to a crisp, in hopes that he would just get off his arse and cook his own dinner. I did this for about two years before I heard about this fantastic thing called 'breaking up'.PPS: I used the same trick on my parents, in which I would make really weak watery tea with way too much milk. It was a pretty disgusting beverage all up, and they soon learnt to get my brother to fulfil all hot beverage tasks. Good parents...

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Um.. more like I saw it on A Current Affair, so I'm pretty sure it's bullshit. A lovely customer tries to return a fuggly pair of shoes to me. The conversation goes something like this:

Stupid customer: I'd like to return these.Bored salesperson: We don't refund, but I can give you a gift certificate.Irritating customer: No, I want my money back.Apathetic salesperson: What's wrong with them. Besides being hideous.Annoying customer: I don't like them.Unconcerned salesdrone: But they match your hideousness. We don't refund non-faulty items.Whiny customer: But you can't say that!Fed up salesperson: I just did.Know-it-all: I'm pretty sure it's illegal to tell me you can't give me a refund.Big-ball-of-meh: Oh, really.Bothersome customer: Yes. I saw it on A Current Affair. So it must be true.Dead-panned salesperson: Listen, lady. I've worked in retail for almost a decade. I ain't gotta give you anything unless it's broke. A'ight?Obtuse person: But I saw it on the TV! A Current Affair did a story on it!

It astounds me that people believe what they see on the television when most of it is make-believe. Even more so when they admit it. Even more amazing is the fact that this marvellous example of intelligence hasn't been run over by a bus... yet.

Epilogue: Said customer was given a gift certificate and the website address for Consumer Affairs Victoria. A Current Affair continues to create accurate and riveting news pieces. This author is now married to a rockstar and lives in a mansion with five pet iguanas.

Monday, March 30, 2009

I got run over today. But when I say 'run over' I really mean 'hit' because no vehicles actually went over me. And perhaps I should also mention that it wasn't a car, it was a pram.

It amazes me that people strap their children onto what is basically a plastic seat with wheels, and all of a sudden they feel invincible. They feel like they can plow through crowds, use it as an excuse to push past people waiting to get on trains, to kick people out of elevators. Fair enough, they have kids and we should accommodate for them. But, that said, they should still realise that it is indeed their precious offspring strapped to the front of these devices. No, you wouldn't attach your pet chihuahua to the front of your car. So indeed, why do you run at breakneck speed through crowds with the fruit of your loins at the front of a plough?

When I pointed this out to the angry bogan father who smashed into me, I was promptly told to mind my own fucking business. Point taken.

Thanks to laissez-faire approach of Connex and the rapidly increasing population of Melbourne, I had to sit next to a total stranger on the Belgrave train. Not a problem, if he didn't start talking to me.

"Excuse me..."Yes?"Sorry. Nothing."

Another ten minutes and four stations go by.

"Um, excuse me, are you a student?"No."Do you live here?" On the train? No."What do people do on weekends?"Sleep in.

He goes on to ask weird questions, like finding a place to fix his skateboard. It all gets very awkward so I make an escape route which consists of pretending that it's my station, getting off and running to the next carriage. Would have worked beautiful had I realised that there were massively clear and transparent (as glass usually is) glass doors between the carriages.

[NB: I should also mention that I met my last boyfriend on the Cranbourne train, on his way to visit his girlfriend at the time, who he started redating after he dumped me. Perhaps this is the cause of my adversion to courting whilst on public transport.]

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

I recently received an email from an alumni organisation that I am a member of. The opening sentences were:

"Dear Paige, We define achievement in a variety of different ways - from the car we drive, through to the clothes we wear, or the TV we own. But have you ever thought you could define achievement by the job you do?"

Um, yes? Yes, I frequently do? If anything, I would largely define my achievement and success on my career (low paid but highly satisfied writer) and personal relationships (fulfilling), and not on my car (public transport user), my TV (second hand one that doesn't plug into the wall) or my clothes (second hand). I'm trying to figure out what they expected members to think.

"Meh, I'm a hooker who dresses like a child so that pedophiles will pay me. But I drive a Lamborghini and wear Ferragamo on my days off so it's alright."